


build your castle into me

by bullshippin



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Hand Jobs, M/M, Woo!, a smidgen of plot, arms arms arms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-23 04:12:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4862687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bullshippin/pseuds/bullshippin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve knows where his real faith lies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	build your castle into me

**Author's Note:**

> so this was supposed to be a lot different but it just kind of had a mind of its own. this was originally titled 'call to (bucky's) arms' but it didn't really turn out as i intended. as always, comments and feedback are appreciated. (also, this'll be un-beta'd for a short while)

1.

Brooklyn, 1936

 

It’s ironic in some corrupt way, Steve thinks, that he notices it first while they’re at mass.

_“Behold the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world.”_

The entire congregation is on their knees and Steve dares a look to his right, where Bucky is kneeling with his hands gripped tight on the pew in front of them. His eyes are closed, relaxed, though the tension in his arms belie him. Steve finds himself tracing with his own eyes the slight definition of veins that wind his arms.

They’re sixteen now, and Steve’s hardly grown any muscle at all, but Bucky on the other hand would be splintering the wood if his hands gripped any tighter. He wonders momentarily what’s plaguing the depths of his friend’s mind, for if it’s half as twisted as what’s eating away at Steve’s own, he understands the strain; the desire to escape the bible wielders. The broad of Bucky’s shoulders is a thing of art; he couldn’t shift his gaze if he tried. More sin.

_“Blessed are those called to the supper of the Lamb.”_

He’s a transgressor in a house of the Lord. The seed of sodomy buried deep within his psyche, blooming even under the words of God. The soft sound of creaking oak like a cry for lost virtue.

Bucky opens his eyes then, at the congregation’s cue to respond, gray meeting blue under the weight of the Holy Ghost himself.

_"Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof, but only say the word and my soul shall be healed."_

Steve knows where his real faith lies.

 

2.

Brooklyn, 1938

 

“What the fuck were you thinkin’?” Bucky’s angry, as angry as Steve’s ever seen him in their several years. “You can’t just go pickin’ quarrels with anyone you damn well please!” The air is heavy and he’s pretty sure his rapid heartbeat can be felt by the large hand gripping his left shoulder. Bucky looks to where his hand is clenching and releases him as if his clavicle were a hot iron. He turns around so what he says next is nearly inaudible for his impaired ears. “You could’ve been— God in heaven. _Steve_.”

“At least I’d of been hurt helping that poor girl. Who knows what they’d have done to her if I hadn’t stepped in?” Bucky turns around then, gets incredibly close to Steve, hand pressed right against the center of his chest.

“You think she deserves safety more than you do, huh? Is that it?”

“It was the right thing to do.” Who is Steve to preach about righteousness?

The press of fingers light up his chest, then Bucky’s gone.

 

3.

Coney Island, 1939

 

“Think I can break it?” Bucky flips the baseball in his hand repeatedly, cocky grin plastered on his face. The guy who runs the stand is huffing but Bucky’s attention is entirely on Steve.

“I dunno, tough guy.” Is what he says, but he thinks that with arms like _that_ , he could probably break Steve.

Bucky steps back, winds up.

The bottle at the back end of the stand breaks.

“Looks like we got ourselves a winner,” The man says.

“Give my pal here the bunny.” The carny motions to a stuffed animal on the top shelf of the prize area. “Yeah, the one with the hearts.”

Steve does his damned best not to blush and thinks for a moment that yeah, maybe he breaks a little too.

 

4.

Brooklyn, 1940

 

Sometimes, Bucky comes home from the docks with the smell of salt and sweat lingering on his skin and Steve thinks that God himself has chosen him to face the impossible.

He is Sisyphus rolling the crushing weight of desire uphill just to have it roll back down in the form of his hand down his skivvies in the shroud of night.

It’s wrong and Steve knows it. God, he knows it, and he’s helpless to the deadly sin that rests at the pit of his stomach.

He considers going to confession but he knows better. 5 Hail Marys every day for as long as he knows James Buchanan Barnes. Then Bucky himself will interrupt his thoughts with a pack of cards in hand and ask if he wants to play a game of 5 card straight poker.

“We can even make it strip, if you want.” He’d add, with a smirk and a rich laugh.

_Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners._

5.

Brooklyn, 1941

 

Steve’s eating a peach when his world tilts on its axis.

Whispers of the war have turned in to yells; from the single father on the floor above Steve and Bucky’s, to the pacifists on the footsteps of the Flatiron, to the bold newspaper headings. It’s unavoidable.

Steve should’ve been expecting it.

Bucky sits across from him, maudlin from the whiskey that he still carries the smell of. A piece of paper sits in front of him, face down, yet another trial for Steve.

“What is it, Bucky?” He needs to hear it.

“Y’know what it is.” Steve doesn’t even know what it is that he needs to hear.

“When?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

Steve can’t help but let out a soft sob at that and Bucky is across the table in seconds.

“Don’t—please Stevie—don’t.” Bucky’s on his knees now, hugging Steve to his chest from where he sits. Steve doesn’t make any more noise but the silence is infinitely louder. He focuses on the breaths that puff out in to his hair and tries to align with them, tries not to fall in to the clutches of his crappy lungs again. Bucky shouldn’t have to deal with that now. He hasn’t been Stevie since 5th grade.

“Okay, okay.” Bucky still doesn’t let go, just rests his hands on Steve’s shoulders and holds him at arm’s length.

“This is gonna sound fuckin’ mental, but can I do something ‘fore I leave? Just once.” He’s got the look on his face, the one he uses when he wants Steve to paint him something, when he wants a back rub, when he _wants._

“Of course, Buck. Anything.” He’s barely got it out before he’s got lips pressed up against his slacked own. The fingers that were splayed on his shoulders are now cradling the sides of his face as heat crawls up, up, up. As if Bucky feels the flush against his palms, he allows their lips to graze just that much more, exchanging breaths between the barely wet kisses. And, oh fuck, Steve is dreaming when he feels Bucky’s tongue press against his lips.

With a hand on Steve’s waist, Bucky moves them so he’s got his own back against the arm of their couch, Steve straddling his thighs.

“Always thought you’d taste like sugar,” Bucky says with a sigh. Steve cuts him off with his mouth again, stopping between a parting of their lips to ask,

“How long’ve you thought about it?”

Bucky’s bright irises are reduced to a thin sliver around the dark of his pupils when Steve pulls back. “For as long as I can remember, doll.”

And Steve, well Steve is done for.

With his long fingers wrapped in Bucky’s dark green tunic, he asks what else he’s thought about.

“How many bruises I could fit ‘ere,” He moves his hand from Steve’s cheek to his collarbone, “how you’d react if I did this,” he pinches the thin white cotton over Steve’s nipple, elicits himself a soft sound and a jerk of the hips, “yeah, yeah, like that.” His voice isn’t more than a whisper towards the end. Steve wouldn’t be able to understand it if his eyes weren’t focused on the plush of his lips. “Wondered if you’d look the same on your knees for me as you do when you’re kneeling at mass.” That’s the end of the line for Steve, his fingers moving for Bucky’s belt.

“Not quite on my knees, but it’ll have t’do.” He moves so he’s adjacent to Bucky’s right thigh, leaning over him and undoing his trousers.

There’s no words to describe the exhilaration that buzzes through Steve when he’s got his fingers wrapped around Bucky’s cock, basking in the soft moan he returns.

Bucky’s head falls back against the arm of the couch, eyes fluttering at the dry drag of skin on skin. Steve leans forward in the sake of remedy, pressing an open mouth kiss where his hand doesn’t cover, easing the strokes; feeling the body beneath him tense and fingers come up to rest in his hair.

“Steve,”

When he takes the tip in his mouth, sliding down, Bucky starts talking.

“Jesus, Mary n’ Joseph, baby,” Steve starts to move his head, tongue working on the underside as the fingers in his hair wrap tighter. He uses his hand that’s not curled around the base of Bucky’s cock to grasp at his biceps, feeling them flex as the yank at his scalp intensifies. He can’t help but let out a muffled whine. “Oh. _Baby_. Oh, angel. You look even prettier’n I thought you would.” When Steve moves his hand from the smooth skin of his upper arm, Bucky moves his fingers to the gaunt of his jaw, undoubtedly feeling where the tip of his cock presses against the inside of Steve’s cheek. Steve himself wants to smirk when he feels a shiver run through the body beneath him. He doesn’t though, just adds more suction when he sees fit, working his lips faster.

“Steve,” He’s never heard Bucky’s voice take that tone before and yet somehow he _knows,_ “Stevie, gonna come.” Meeting the barely restrained thrusts of his hips, Steve takes him as deep as he can, nose brushing against skin on every downward movement. “Don’t—oh god—don’t want’a finish in your mouth if you don’t want me to.” And that’s what gets Steve, the fact that this is still _Bucky._ Bucky, who’s always breaking up Steve’s fights. The same Bucky who puts in extra hours at the dock to buy Steve fresh fruit, to buy Steve medicine. Bucky, who’s _leaving_.

He fumbles for Bucky’s left hand, intertwining their fingers as he nods.

“Oh, fuck, baby doll. Fuck.” Warmth floods Steve’s mouth as the hips below him jerk up. Fingers stroke through his hair as he milks Bucky through it, cock slipping from in between his lips after a few short moments. “Get up here.”

When Steve’s back straddling his lap, Bucky’s hand slips in to his pants, fingers wrapping around where he’s already hard. His strokes are steady and firm and Steve isn’t gonna last very long at this rate. Steve can’t control the little ‘uh’s that fall from his mouth when the fingers squeeze just right. He fumbles for Bucky’s free hand and when he gets it, he presses it against his own throat, hoping Bucky gets the hint.

He does, wrapping his fingers around Steve’s throat, delicately at first, then with more intent. There’s a conscious part of Steve’s mind that comprehends just how much of his neck the hand encompasses. Said part short circuits when Bucky squeezes, cutting off Steve’s air supply for a moment. He tries to moan but it comes out as nothing more than a squeak.

“I know, doll, I know.” Bucky readjusts them so he can catch eye contact when he says, “Just wait ‘till I get back so I can fuck you for real,”  and Steve comes, wet and warm over Bucky’s hand. The aftershocks run through him in blissful waves that leave him to do nothing but bury his face in the junction of Bucky’s collarbone.

“Lemme get a towel,” Bucky says only after he’s thoroughly kissed Steve’s mouth red.

When he comes back and cleans them off, they pull the couch cushions on to the floor like nothing’s changed at all. Bucky pulls him closer than ever, though, whispering sweet nothings in to the blonde of Steve’s hair.

“You can’t leave, Buck.” He says when Bucky switches to running fingers against his scalp.

“I’ll be back. Your just gonna haf’ta trust me, Steve. End of the line and whatnot,” His words are almost joking but his eyes belie him, solemn.

Steve’s not sure if he’s still listening, but he prays to God that Bucky is right.   

        


End file.
